


Still but Muddied Water

by ChristinaSafona



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, F/M, Friendship, Gay yearning, Gen, Grief, Hagrid is a sweetheart, M/M, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Not the most avant garde take on the HPU but it’s mine okay!, Semi-Canon Compliant, Trauma and reconciliation, alternate universe scenario, multiple own characters, no out-of-character characters, split POV, the goblet of fire, trying to write around/undo harmful biases JK ingrained into her work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:00:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26276782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChristinaSafona/pseuds/ChristinaSafona
Summary: She wants to flee the castle, shoot off on her broomstick from the top of Ravenclaw tower, hijack the Hogwarts express back to London, or even steal one of Hagrid’s thestrals. She settles for the sensation of feet pounding on stone, taking the long corridor at a sprint, eager to put distance between herself and the goblet.What could she have expected, letting herself be taken in, wrapped up in stories of glory, of acceptance?





	1. Chapter 1

Chapter One - The Ravenclaw Champion

‘So who’d you reckon will be Hogwarts champion?’ Ron asks as they make their way to the great hall for the feast, the three of them jostling past a gaggle of excited first years and Krum’s fan club, who are craning their necks to glimpse the quidditch player through the crowd of fur clad Durmstrang students.

‘I hope it’s Angelina. I’d just love to see the looks on the Slytherins faces when that troll Warrington isn’t picked, wouldn’t you?’ Harry laughs, remembering with grim satisfaction that whoever the school champion ends up being, they’re likely to disappoint the Slytherins in any case, who are largely an unfriendly bunch towards anyone but their own.

‘So it’s Cedric, Angelina, Warrington... that’s someome from every house but Ravenclaw. Which of them put their names in?’ Chimes Hermione with a frown as they take their seats. The hall is filling up quickly, a mass of black robed students pouring in and filling up the long oak tables and the cavernous room with raucous chatter.

‘I’m not sure,’ muses Ron, ‘they’re a secretive lot the Ravenclaws, but I heard a rumour from Dean that a bunch of sixth years were down here last night.’

‘I bet Roger Davies put his name in.’ Harry speculates, looking over at the Ravenclaw table where the broad shouldered seventh year sits, surrounded by admiring friends.

‘Him? He’s almost as bad as Diggory!’ Ron moans, ‘if we have him as a champion I’ll throw myself off the astronomy tower.’

‘You wouldn’t be happy with anyone other than a Gryffindor, Ron.’ Hermione chides, tucking her book into her bag and looking up at the two of them.

‘No I wouldn’t.’ Ron says firmly, without a hint of shame. Harry grins but his expression drops quickly at Hermione’s withering look, though a hush descends over the hall at just the right moment to spare them a lecture. Dumbledore has stood up.

The flame flickering from within the mouth of the goblet throws his long white beard into a column of blinding light, his impressive figure hushing the conversations of not only the Hogwarts students, but those of Durmstrang and Beauxbatons as well. Harry glances at the Veela girl who had laughed on the first night of her arrival, even she is watching intently.

‘The goblet of fire has now been alight for twenty four hours, and in a few moments it will reveal the selected champions. I expect all students will give their full support to whoever the goblet deems worthy, and rally around their champions in the spirit of the tournament.’ Dumbledore says in his ringing voice.

Ludo Bagman is bouncing up and down in his seat further down the table, as excited as any student, his lips twitching, sending winks at select students.

‘And by now it should be just the right... ah yes, there it goes.’ Dumbledore observes, voice lowering to a hushed murmur as the flame in the goblet surges and glows ruby red, a sound like a jet rumbling through the great hall. The students sit completely still, breath high in their throats, watching.

A scrap of paper flies upwards and rocks back and forth, drifting slowly downwards into Dumbledore’s long fingered hand.

‘The Hogwarts Champion is,’ he reads out, pausing to look up at the hundreds of rivited faces, ‘Sylvie Lomont.’

‘Who?’ Ron half shouts, the words coming out in an indignant sort of hiss, though a great shout from one end of the Ravenclaw table drowns him out completely. The other houses are frozen, but little by little, after a few moments, a great stamping of feet and cheering travels through the hall, starting with the Ravenclaws, spreading to the crimson clad Gryffindors and Slytherins. The small group of Hufflepuffs around Diggory look dejected, clapping half heartedly, though their house is not one to bear a grudge, and the majority of the yellow clad students are clapping as enthusiastically as any Ravenclaw before long.

Aside from the uproar, a good many people are craning their necks to look towards where the loudest cheer had emerged. The name holds a ring of familiarity in Harry’s mind, as it seems to for most people, but he has only the vaguest picture of her in his head.

‘She doesn’t look very happy, does she?’ Hermione whispers to the two of them, as the clapping begins to abate. She isn’t wrong. Sylvie’s face has drained of colour, and next to the shiny, flushed faces of her ecstatic fellow Ravenclaws, she looks dumbstruck.

The slight, honey haired girl stands up, shoulders pushed back confidently, though her expression reflects none of the same certainty. She walks up the long hall and shakes hands with Dumbledore, who points her into the next room.

The room has broken into conspiratorial whispers, Sylvie’s nomination has blown the majority of students away. The champion had been expected to be a wholesome, true Hufflepuff, someone like Diggory, a poster boy for competitive talent and sportsmanship. A Gryffindor like Angelina wouldn’t have been a surprise either, already famous on the quidditch pitch for her boldness as chaser. A Ravenclaw was the last person anyone would expect to represent the school, and now every fragment of rumour or gossip ever heard or told about the suddenly remarkable sixth year is being churned up from one corner of the hall the next.

‘And so we have our Hogwarts Champion, excellent. And now...’ Dumbledore declares, his pitch rising slightly, expectant, as at just the moment of his speaking a second piece of paper flies from the flaming goblet.

‘The Durmstrang Champion is Viktor Krum.’ Dumbledore exclaims, a smile stretching from one edge of his half moon spectacles to the other, as a pounding of fists on tables emerges from where the Durmstrang students sit, and the whole hall cheers uproariously.

‘No surprises there!’ Yells Ron over the din. Krum rises, jaw set, surly but pleased, his duck footed lope somehow impressive under the gaze of the hundreds of students.

‘And our final school, Beauxbatons, will now have a champion selected from their midst.’ Announces Dumbledore after he shakes hands with Krum and waves him in the same direction as Sylvie. For the third time, the flames in the goblet surge, and a slip of paper flutters upwards, plucked from the air once more.

‘Fleur Delacour!’ Dumbledore cries, and the hall erupts with applause.

‘It’s her Ron! The Veela!’ Harry hisses into his friends ear, whose eyes are already fixed on the swinging silvery hair of the Beauxbatons girl as she strides confidently to the front. The Hogwarts applause for her is much more enthusiastic than that of even her own compatriots, indeed many Beauxbatons students look remarkably disappointed, a few girls are even sobbing into slips of blue silky cloth.

‘Honestly,’ Hermione admonishes, rolling her eyes at the disappointed girls, ‘did they hear what Dumbledore said about taking it on the chin?’

But Ron is hardly paying attention, still watching Fleur as she waltzes from the hall. Harry stifles a laugh at his moony eyed expression, but decides against drawing more attention to it when he catches sight of Hermione’s eyes flashing with disapproval.

‘So,’ Ron sighs, snapping out of his reverie and regarding the two of them languidly, ‘that’s the Hogwarts champion. Who’d have thought it would be a Ravenclaw? Know anything about her?’

Ron’s musings are interrupted however by a sudden tide of whispers and startled intonations that rustle through the great hall. Dumbledore’s white hair whips over his shoulder as he turns around to see the goblet of fire roaring once more.

Mr Crouch half stands up, startled, and Bagman’s round, boyish face glimmers in the firelight with a hint of nervous sweat.

Nobody speaks as the goblet offers up one final slip of paper. Dumbledore reaches out to grab it, clasping it with both hands as if worried it will crumble into fine ash.

‘Harry Potter.’ He reads


	2. The Reckoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arguments, significant gazes and a reckoning

The second Sylvie knows she is out of sight, she breaks into a run. She wants to flee the castle, shoot off on her broomstick from the top of Ravenclaw tower, hijack the Hogwarts express back to London, or even steal one of Hagrid’s thestrals. She settles for the sensation of feet pounding on stone, taking the long corridor at a sprint, eager to put distance between herself and the goblet.

Sylvie can’t conjure any sympathy for herself, however. The one time she allows herself to be cajoled, entranced by her fellow Ravenclaws into signing her name and laying it like a sacrifice before the goblet, well, what could she have expected?

Her mother had always warned her not to tempt fate. She was sure it would be Diggory, or even Angelina, she would have been happy to cheer either of them on. But the hysteria of being one of a crowd, of being sick of being labelled the temperamental pariah, she had wanted to prove that she was part of this school, at least enough to partake in entering her name.

Sylvie slows to a heavy, bouncing stride as she enters the trophy room approaching the fire and placing both hands against the tepid marble mantelpiece, lowering her head and breathing deeply. She has brought this upon herself.

Wildly, she thinks of begging to be withdrawn, to suggest that the goblet had made a mistake, that she could not compete because... because...

A good reason fails her. Or at least, a reason that Dumbledore, let alone the ministry, would accept.

 _My mother will kill me..._ rings feebly through her mind

Sylvie’s racing thoughts are interrupted by the arrival of another champion. Krum, Durmstrang. She looks at him and realises that he is now her competitor, no longer a celebrity, but a sort of equal. She pities the Irish team that had to face him, he is no less intimidating up close.

Krum looks as if he might say something, looking her up and down quickly, but apparently loses his courage and goes towards a cabinet of quidditch awards and tokens, inspecting them with an air of determined concentration.

About a minute later someone else enters, a beautiful Beauxbatons student with long flame coloured hair. Her sharp chin and pointed nose give her a haughty appearance, though Fleur Delacour doesn’t need the help of her fine features to convey her complete distaste for most of what she observes.

‘So zis is ze three of us?’ She states, her french accent comforting Sylvie somewhat, a sort of grounding reminder of the world outside the stuffy trophy room.

‘Vill ve go back to the hall, or is one of your ministry to come here?’ Krum asks, addressing her all of a sudden.

Sylvie falters first a second, ‘uh...’

She is saved, or perhaps this is the wrong word, when the door swings open for a fourth time and a scrawny, tousled haired boy steps under the flickering candle light.

She recognises, as any witch or wizard would, Harry Potter.

_Why is he here?_

Sylvie has been at Hogwarts long enough to know that, while Harry is admired by the majority of the student body, except of course the Slytherins, anything that he touches becomes imbued with a sense of danger. The Philosopher’s Stone, the Basilisk, the rumours of the Shrieking Shack and the Dementors...

It isn’t surprising then that his presence makes Sylvie more anxious, if such a thing were even possible.

‘Do zey want us back in ze ‘all?’ Fleur asks him throatily, looking him up and down and appearing to deem him little more than a messenger.

Sylvie can tell instantly that Harry isn’t here to shepard them back to the great hall. Something has happened, something unexpected. She recognises in Harry’s startled green eyes a hint of the same shock and disbelief that she had felt being chosen mere minutes ago.

Before Harry can explain himself, an entourage of teachers enter the trophy room, all talking very fast, the babble of voices drowning out any potential for Sylvie to grasp what is actually going on.

The fighting voices dissolve, and Bagman, being the loudest, steps forward.

‘Well it seems that the goblet has chosen - and a very strange thing it is indeed - a fourth champion.’ His booming voice at odds with his sheepish demeanour and the nervous way he bounces on his heels.

Fleur tosses her hair over her shoulder and smiles radiantly, evidently believing his pronouncement to be a joke. Sylvie isn’t sure whether she is in denial, or if she simply cannot read the room, but from the looks on Harry’s and McGonagal’s faces, this is hardly a dupe of Bagman’s.

‘Make no mistake, this is a serious upset to the integrity of the tournament!’ Karkaroff splutters, beady bird-like eyes widening in outrage.

‘You can not tell me zis is true! Zis little boy is to compete? ‘E is too young!’ Fleur cries indignantly, Madame Maxine steps forward to place a large hand on her shoulder. The towering headmistress tosses her dark mane of hair and her shimmering opals catch the light.

‘My student is right, Dumbledore, ‘ow can ‘e compete? It is not fair! Two champions, surely there ‘as been some mistake!’ Madame Maxine reasons. Karkaroff nods in agreement, something comical about his short stature next to the regal woman beside him.

‘I have half a mind to leave right now! The names must be redrawn, it cannot be allowed. No one ever mentioned that the host school vould have two champions.’ Karkaroff threatens, jaw clenched, a bony finger waving through the air in the faces of Dumbledore, Bagman and Crouch.

‘Now Karkaroff, this was hardly foreseen...’ Bagman begins, face open and earnest, but anxious. He is interrupted by Moody however, who had blended into the shadows behind them, but steps forward now, the deep caverns of his scars casting shadows on his face, distorting it and making his expression impossible to place. Were Sylvie to guess, she would pin it as grim skepticism. Perhaps because of this, Karkaroff steps back.

‘Empty threat, Karkaroff. They all have to compete, it’s a binding magical contract. Your Champion,’ he gestures to Krum, ‘will compete, as will Delacour, as will Lomont, as will Potter.’ Moody states, leaning on the handle of his wooden cane, eye whizzing manically.

Madame Maxine throws Sylvie a look for the first time since entering the room, her gaze lingering for a second. The older woman’s head is so much higher above Sylvie’s own, she would have missed her attention had she too not been already looking. They’re eyes meet and Sylvie senses the recognition that passes. Madame Maxine looks away.

Sylvie listens as Dumbledore tries to diffuse the situation, as Harry denies having ever placed his name in the Goblet and Snape scoffs at his professions of innocence.

Even as the teachers argue, Sylvie can see that Harry will have to compete, despite the other heads protestations. Fleur looks outraged, Krum surly, Sylvie only feels confusion.

A great many things run through her mind, half about Harry, half about her own fate in the tournament. She is eager for the teachers to stop arguing, to come to an agreement so she can go to bed. She has no desire to sleep, rather to simply lie there and think over the monumental events of the last half hour.

‘A nightcap, Madame Maxine?’ Dumbledore offers, his cheery tone snapping Sylvie from her reverie. She supposes they must have reached a truce. A nightcap is what Sylvie could do with right now.

Madame Maxine declines coldly and puts her hand on Fleur’s shoulder, gliding from the room. Karkaroff says a cold goodnight and pushes Krum ahead of him out through the doors towards the hall.

‘Off to your common rooms, the both of you.’ McGonagal tells Sylvie and Harry sternly, her voice slightly more shrill than usual, her lined face drawn and pinched with worry. Dumbledore smiles slightly at the both of them and inclines his head. Harry still looks deathly pale and his ‘goodnight’ to the headmaster is hollow.

They walk in silence out of the trophy room and into the entrance hall. Sylvie wonders what could be going through Harry’s mind. She supposes that this depends on whether or not he really did put his name into the Goblet.

She empathises with him, whether or not he entered his name. Sylvie knows all too well that there is a great deal of difference between half supposed notions of competing carries to far, versus truly committing. Writing her name on that slip of paper had felt so non descript, harmless. How could she ever be chosen with candidates like Diggory and Johnson in the running?

They stop by the library, where their paths diverge. He will be heading to the Gryffindor tower no doubt, and her to the Ravenclaw, which is on the opposite side of the school. They stand awkwardly, half poised to step away and leave, suddenly aware that they are now linked, sharing identical burdens, whether they like it or not.

‘Goodnight then.’ Says Sylvie, inclining her head, cursing herself immediately for the outdated, awkward gesture.

‘Goodnight,’ Harry mutters, taking a few paces up the marble stars, about to leave before he stops and looks back at her.

‘I didn’t put my name in that goblet.’ He states, almost defiant, as if expecting her to scoff. Sylvie raises her eyebrows slightly.

‘Alright then. Any idea who did?’ She replies matter of factly, looking up at him. He doesn’t reply, his lips part for a split second but then his gaze closes off and he turns back towards the staircase, leaving her in the gathering darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading! Any feedback would be amazing but honestly, just coming here means a lot too :)


	3. A fog so dense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A celebration, a best friend and an element of mystery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy! Sounds like any other note on here but I do really hope you enjoy reading :)

The walk up to Ravenclaw tower is solitary and seems far longer than usual. Not since her first night at Hogwarts has the tower seemed such a distance from the entrance hall, when she had felt so very small compared to the prefects guiding her.

Reaching the base of the Ravenclaw tower, she raises her hand to rap gently on the bronze eagle knocker. The bronze thuds dully and the knocker’s beady eyes open, it’s curved beak parting into a sort of mysterious smile

‘Tell me,’ it muses in a low, croaky voice, ‘what always asks but never answers?’

She wishes for the umpteenth time that the Ravenclaws had a password like everyone else. Yeah, they’re supposed to be brainy, but to have to prove it every time they want to get into their common room?

Sylvie runs a hand through her hair, ‘that would be you, wouldn’t it?’ She replies in a tired, resigned voice. The eagle knocker lets out a low chuckle.

‘Unorthodox, but I’ll take it.’ It concedes.

The dark wooden door swings open and Sylvie is glad of the small passageway that she can pause in before entering the common room. She draws back her shoulders and smooths down her hair, hoping her eyes aren’t too red. Fixing what she thinks is a modest but pleased expression onto her face, she steps into the low, golden light.

A round of applause breaks out as she is noticed by what seems to be the whole of Ravenclaw house, all crammed into the common room, perched on the arms of sofas or on desks, conversing excitedly but pausing to spring up and clap when they see her.

‘Good on you, Sylvie!’ Anthony Goldstein grins, clapping her on the shoulder, breaking the floodgates for a torrent of speech to break forth, as after him half of the house seems to want to shake her hand or high five her, with the other half conjuring glasses and crystal bottles from under desks or out of thin air.

Once glasses have been distributed, even to the first years, who look delighted at their inclusion in such a high spirited event for the usually studious Ravenclaws, Sylvie watches her best friend Lo hop onto a chair and flash his very white teeth, flicking his wand and filling all their glasses with butterbeer in an instant.

He raises his glass, looking directly at her, ‘To the Ravenclaw we will never again hear the end of, Sylvie Lomont!’ He declares triumphantly, to tumultuous cheers and applause, as well as an echoed, to Sylvie!

Genuinely touched by the support of her house, Sylvie hardly protests when the Ravenclaws pull her into a lively discussion about the upcoming tournament, Potter and the other two champions, during which she is glad for the argumentative nature of her fellow housemates, for it means she has hardly but to sit back and sip her butterbeer, occasionally grinning when a passing student claps her shoulder or pours her another drink.

Slabs of honeydukes chocolate are passed around, as well as various biscuits and seemingly endless rounds of butterbeer.

The festive atmosphere in the common room only mounts as the night draws on, and after a while a seventh year turns up the the radio to a deafening crescendo, and a gaggle of high spirited fourth years conjure flying blue eagles from their wands that glitter and flap about the room over their heads.

‘Doing alright, Sylvie?’ Lo leans in and whispers, evidently registering the fatigue in her posture, the slump to her shoulders. She shrugs. In truth, she’s simply trying not to think about what had happened two hours ago, that she has entered into something she can’t back out of. This is made more difficult by the fact that two dozen or so people around her are congratulating her on becoming champion every other minute.

‘I’m just tired.’ She says shortly, putting her half drunk butterbeer onto the table in front of her.

‘I can wind this down if you want, then we can all get some sleep.’ Lo offers, nudging her. Sylvie nods. Her friend springs up immediately and starts covertly shooing some of the younger years out of the common rooms and up to their dormitories.

As they leave, the common room comes to appear emptier, and in a slow trickle, groups of students say their last congratulations to Sylvie and plod up the stairs.

Michael Corner, Terry Boot, Cho Chang and of course Lorenzo, as well as a few others, remain gathered around the cluster of chairs and sofas at the centre of the common room, still laughing and chatting raucously. Sylvie herself is perched on a chair, nestled amongst them, and making her escape proves difficult.

‘I’m going to go up to bed.’ She tells them, moving to stand up from her chair.

‘No! Stay, celebrate, this is for you after all.’ Michael protests, to a general echoing of agreement and a couple of, come on Sylvies.

‘Let the champion get some rest.’ Lo says in a mock stern tone, flashing one of his charismatic grins. Lorenzo is good looking, and he knows it, no one can refute anything he says with that smile.

‘Goodnight you guys, and thanks for all of this,’ Sylvie tells them, gesturing towards the food, drinks and glittering blue eagles still soaring around the room. Lo pulls her in for a hug and claps her on the back.

‘Good night champion.’ He laughs, and pushes her away from him playfully.

‘Up to bed!’

Sylvie grins weakly and mounts the stairs with a small wave, only letting her sigh escape her when she has reached the top stone step and is out of sight.

The Ravenclaws have the pleasure of having many small dormitories, rather than a few large ones, so she shares with only two other girls, rather than four, as she has heard other houses do.

Sylvie pulls off her robes and tosses them haphazardly onto the windowsill by her bed. Pulling on her pajamas and flopping down to gaze at the blue silk of her four poster, she realise that sleep will not come as easily as she had imagined.

She thinks first of the three tasks to come, of the unknown challenge she will face in a few weeks, before a panel of judges, not to mention the entire school. Sylvie can’t think of a situation less welcome than one of being jeered at or made a spectacle of, especially if she were to be seen failing cataclysmically.

She wakes up early the next morning and is glad of it, she can slip from the dormitory without awakening the other girls and avoid any further discussion of the tournament. There’s only one person with whom she wants to talk to.

Sylvie pulls on her black robes and her tough leather boots, peering in between the blue drapes and hangings of Padma Patil’s bed to to glance at herself in the mirror on the adjecent wall.

Every heavy, dark and blueish hour she had spent so fitfully the previous night seems to have accumulated under each eye, and she looks paler and more tired than she has seen herself since last summers exams. Her eyes are large as it is, and her face is quite small and pointed, though there’s a stubbornness to her chin and a pensive lift to her eyebrows.

Sylvie runs her hands over her hair to smooth it with a flick of her wrists, and grabs her Ravenclaw hat and scarf. She leaves her books behind, she will return for them later.

The Hogwarts grounds are blanketed in frost and a mist hangs around the tree line that gives way to the forbidden forest. It is just light enough that she can make out the bottom of the valley that the castle presides over, but only barely. In a few minutes however, the sun will break over the eastern mountain and bathe the grounds in a glorious sunrise.

She stumbles down a rocky path, past the greenhouses and the Beauxbatons carriage. Smoke issues from the chimney on Hagrid’s hut and there is a lamp lit in his window, telling her that he is awake.

She finds him behind the hut by the pumpkin patch, which is a vivid orange blur, distorted by the frost and fog. He is chopping wood, or rather ripping the logs apart with his bare hands, a ferocious sight to anyone who did not know Hagrid’s as well as she.

‘Morning Hagrid!’ She calls out, surprised to hear that the cheery note she had hoped to put into her voice had come out rather tinny and hollow. Hagrid looks up at her and drops the log he had been holding.

‘Blimey Sylvie, what are yer doin’ here?’ He asks, surprised but pleased, striding towards her, his eyes glinting under his mass of wild hair. Sylvie shrugs, suddenly finding that a lump in her throat makes it hard to speak. Her chin scrunches up and her teeth lock together, overwhelmed. Hagrid seems to understand and puts an enormous hand on her back with surprising gentleness, directing her towards his hut.

‘Come in an’ have some tea.’


	4. Dragons ‘an All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spilt tea, a slobbering dog and a gross understatement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very short one! More is to come :)

Sylvie sits at Hagrid’s high oak table, Fang drooling on her lap, his baleful, bloodshot eyes gazing up at her. She wraps her hands around a gigantic tankard of tea Hagrid has given her, boiling and sweet. 

‘Hagrid I can’t compete.’ Sylvie tells him, head low over her tea, not looking at him, letting the steam moisten her nose.

‘I don’t know what I was thinking entering, all the Ravenclaws wanted someone to have a go, I never thought it would be me. I feel so stupid.’

Hagrid sits down with a thud and shakes his massive head, sighing.

‘Yer not stupid Sylvie, yer a darn good witch, one o’ the bes’ of any o’ the students,’ Hagrid states confidently, ‘an’ so what if yeh didn’ expect it to be you? Yeh can’t change it now, all yeh can do is compete.’

‘It’s not just the spells, Hagrid, or the tasks. I can’t take the pressure, everyone talking to me, looking at me. They’ll set their hopes on me winning, and if I fail they’ll all hate me for it.’ Sylvie frets, tugging anxiously at her Ravenclaw tie.

‘Now Sylvie, yeh’re in with as good a chance as any o’ the others, an’ the students will suppor’ yeh jus’ for takin’ part, yeh don’t need to win to make Hogwarts proud.’ Hagrid consoles her.

‘If Harry does well the pressure’s off, I suppose. It’s a damn good thing that his name got into that goblet, The boy who lived makes a much better bit of gossip than I do.’ Sylvie reasons, shrugging and sipping her scalding tea, though thinking darkly that, from the look on Harry’s face the other night, he had not thought being chosen was a good thing at all.

Hagrid shakes his head in dismay when she mentions this.

‘Harry has enough ter be worryin’ about without dragons an’ all.’ Hagrid sighs, scratching the back of his neck, absent minded.

Sylvie feels as if an ice cube rather than the hot tea has slipped down her throat into her stomach.

‘Hagrid,’ Sylvie interrupts, ‘did you say _dragons_?’

Hagrid goes red immediately, choking and coughing on a large mouthful of tea that ends up all over the table. Gasping for air for his burnt mouth, Hagrid stutters,

‘Dragons, no - I, well I only mentioned them cos’, well like I said it’s a figure o’...’ Hagrid trails off at the look Sylvie gives him, which is both urgent and disparaging.  
  
‘All righ’ yeah, the firs’ task is dragons, yeh’ve to get past one.’ Hagrid admits resignedly, whilst Sylvie brings her hands under the table so he cannot see them shaking. 

‘An’ I’m not telling yer any more than that, an’ I suppose I’ll have to tell Harry now too.’ Hagrid grumbles, frowning slightly.

Sylvie doesn’t reply, only stares over her tea, dumbstruck. 

‘It won’t be bleedin’ easy mind, flighty things they are, dragons. Like a bit o’ rough an’ tumble.’ Hagrid nods wisely, draining the last of his tea.

Sylvie thinks of this as a gross understatement, but doesn’t say so, already well aware of Hagrid’s blind spot when it comes to wild, dangerous creatures. 

‘Listen, Sylvie, dragons aren’t so bad, they’re not half as smart as hippogrifs.’ Hagrid confides with a knowing look, a note of finality in his voice. 

‘Hippogrifs have to be smart because they aren’t thirty feet tall and don’t breathe fire.’ Sylvie retorts, but then feels bad for dismissing Hagrid’s words of advice, after all, they are what she had come for.

Solace sought, although only partially attained, she decides that she can only put off going up to the castle for breakfast for so long. 

‘Hagrid I should be going. My first class starts at nine.’ Sylvie informs him, standing up and giving Fang a scratch behind his floppy ears. 

‘Ah, right you are Sylvie. An’, now, don’t be tellin’ anyone ‘bout what I- well, what I mentioned ‘bout the you-know-whats.’ Hagrid says conspiratorially, shifting slightly and tapping his nose.

Sylvie can barely muster a reassuring grin, though it is the least he has earned, and crosses the table to give him a hug. Surprised, but evidently pleased, Hagrid pats her head, which hardly reaches his navel. 

‘Come visit any time Sylvie.’ He tells her. She nods, and is halfway to the door when Hagrid’s calls after her. 

‘You’re yer mother’s daughter, Sylvie. You’ll be fine, jus’ fine.’

After returning to the Ravenclaw common room for her books, Sylvie walks down to the great hall for breakfast, trying her utmost to ignore the great many stares and whispers that she attracts along the main staircase.

Several, especially from the Ravenclaws, are openly triumphant and congratulatory, and a group of fourth years claps her on the back as they run past her. Others are simply curious, covert whispers that she can only make out scraps of. A few, especially those of the older Hufflepuffs, are downright hostile. Hagrid’s words ring through her head as she enters the great hall,

_‘You’re yer mother’s daughter, Sylvie. You’ll be fine, jus’ fine.’_


	5. The Howler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tense breakfast, some new information and a family dispute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for continuing to read!

* * *

‘Tell me again what happened after you left the hall.’ Hermione demands, leaning over her bowl of porridge to watch Harry intently, who shifts uncomfortably, looking down at his untouched plate.

‘Like I told you, they asked me if I had put my name in, Dumbledore and the other heads argued over letting Hogwarts have two champions, and Crouch decided that I couldn’t back out. Karkaroff and Maxime weren’t at all pleased, and Moody seemed to think that some dark wizard is trying to do me in.’ Harry recounts, keeping his voice low, not at all reassured by Hermione’s worried expression.

‘But Harry, how could Dumbledore let you compete if it’s supposed to be so dangerous?’ Hermione asks in bewilderment, throwing a furtive glance up at the staff table, from which Dumbledore is still absent.

‘I dunno, but it seemed to me like he didn’t have a say in the matter. Somehow, the goblet won’t let me back out, whatever that means.’ Harry shakes his head. He pushes his now cold eggs around his plate, too preoccupied with watching the door for Ron’s appearance to eat.

‘Look, it’s Sylvie. And she’s alone.’ Hermione points out. Harry notices the blonde Ravenclaw hurry in from the entrance hall, indeed unaccompanied by any fellow sixth years.

‘She doesn’t look great, does she?’ Hermione whispers, and Harry notices that she does look pale and exhausted, marring slightly the good looks that had been much snickered over by some of the Gryffindor boys the previous night.

Sylvie sits down next to a handsome black boy with very white teeth, who is known amongst the Gryffindor girls in much the same way Sylvie is amongst the boys. The very same girls, including Lavender Brown and Paravati Patil, who preen themselves upon seeing Diggory in the corridors, see Lorenzo as a similarly attractive prospect.

Lorenzo asks Sylvie something and pushes a plate of toast and a jug of coffee towards her, nudging her shoulder. Sylvie shakes her head and opens her mouth to speak, but at that moment the post owls arrive in a great flapping of wings and thudding of parcels and letters falling on the long oak tables.

Harry receives nothing, as he had expected, and nor does Hermione. Not distracted by letters or packages like many of the other students, his eyes are drawn back to Sylvie, who has just watched a crimson envelope flutter down onto the table in front of her.

‘Look, Hermione, she’s got a Howler.’ Harry whispers, motioning for Hermione to look across at the Ravenclaw table.Sylvie has buried her face in her hands as her friend Lorenzo opens the letter to prevent it from erupting into flames all across the breakfast table.

The letter, hovering just in front of Sylvie’s face so as to make it impossible to ignore, lets out an odd noise that Harry has never heard a howler make.Unlike the Howlers he has heard before, which generally scream with rage, this one appears to be hissing, a steady diatribe of scathing murmuring that catches the attention of many people around the hall.

Harry listens closely to make out the words, but realises that the snatches he can hear are in French, not English. He exchanges a meaningful look with Hermione before their attention is drawn back to Sylvie, whose face is still buried in her hands, shoulders rigid.After a particularly loud rise in pitch from the Howler, a few Beauxbatons girls look round and begin whispering to eachother. Soon, however, the howler disappears in a puff of smoke and a scattering of sparks.

Lorenzo seems to try to console Sylvie, placing a hand on her shoulder. She brushes it off however, grabs a slice of toast and hurries from the room, not glancing up at the many eyes watching her as she goes.

‘Weird,’ Harry remarks, eyes trailing her as she leaves, then turning to Hermione, ‘who do you think that was from?’

‘Her parents I suppose, or her mother rather,’ Hermione shrugs, brow furrowed, ‘many people wouldn’t be happy to see their kid compete in a dangerous competition like the Triwizard.’

‘Why only her mother?’ Harry asks curiously, but his musings are cut off as he sees Ron approach the table, and the sick feeling that he had awoken with returns to his stomach. It seems that suddenly, with the absence of Sylvie, the great hall has turned its attention to him. Hostile stares come from everyone but the Gryffindors, who chat amiably enough around him.Turning to Hermione with a grim, irritated expression, he sees that she too has picked up on the renewed stares and is already wrapping some toast in a napkin and hauling her bag over her shoulder.

‘Come on Harry, lets go.’ She says, chin up high, though she throws an anxious, dispairing look over at Ron, who is focused intently on his bacon, before they go.

Out in the chilly grounds, they walk by the lake eating peices of toast, Hermione listening patiently as Harry abuses Ron indignantly.

‘I don’t know what’s got into him to be acting like such a prat, if he thinks I want to be in this bloody tournament after being nearly killed every year since I’ve been at Hogwarts already-’ Harry exclaims angrily, cut off by Hermione.

‘Harry, I know you didn’t put your name in the goblet, I mean the look on your face-’ she pauses to float a peice of toast across the black water for the giant squid,‘But isn’t it obvious about Ron? Harry, he’s jealous.’

‘Jealous! Of what? Having a dead mum and dad, of always having people gawking at me and-’ Harry begins, only further enraged.

‘Of course not, he doesn’t see it like that. It’s the attention. He has to compete with his brothers and you’re his best friend and you’re really famous. He puts up with it, he doesn’t say anything about it, but I suppose this is just one time too many.’ Hermione explains ruefully.

Harry remains silent, watching a tentacle rise from the depths of the lake and curl around the peice of toast.Wanting to drop the subject of Ron, Harry begins in a different vein, his tone of voice lighter.

‘What did you mean earlier about Sylvie’s howler? When you said it must have been her mum and not her dad.’ Harry asks curiously, looking over at Hermione as they circle the greenhouses and make their way back up towards the school.

‘Well I thought you knew- I thought everyone did.’ Hermione states, surprised, though Harry only looks at her blankly.

‘Really your as bad as R- well, I mean-’ she trails of slightly lamely as Harry feels the familiar dropping sensation in his stomach.

‘So?’ He prompts Hermione, gliding over her exasperation.

‘Well, her mother is a pretty important witch, not as much here, but well known in France. She’s on the international confederation of wizards and she’s written loads of articles and books about wizarding history, politics, anthropology-’ Hermione recounts.

‘Hermione.’ Harry groans, cutting of her tangent and turning to her in exasperation.

‘Sorry, sorry! Anyway, she’s from an old family, Sylvie’s mum anyway. Her dad though, he was a muggleborn.’ She tells him.

‘Was?’ Harry repeats, brows furrowed.

‘Well that’s the thing. He died in our second year, she would’ve been in fourth year. He was killed, it was really nasty. He just turned up dead, they never found out who it was.’ Hermione shudders, only partially because of the chilly gust of wind that whips around their robes as they approach the entrance back into the castle.

‘Wow.’ Is all Harry can muster, his thoughts racing. Hadn’t he been at Hogwarts when this happened? Was he so blind to the lives and problems of others that the killing of a fellow student’s father apparently did not register in his memory at all?

‘It was just after I was petrified by that basilisk, I only heard later and you had loads going on, to be honest the whole school did.’ Hermione reminds him, seeming to understand what is going through his mind.

‘Yeah, I suppose.’ Harry agrees, falling silent and trying to ignore the stares of other students as they re-enter the castle.

‘Listen Hermione, I’m going up to the owlery, I need to send a letter.’ He tells her, a look passing between them that lets him know she understands his meaning.

‘See you Harry. I’ll try and talk to Ron.’ She grimaces slightly, Harry shrugs and looks away, disappearing up the stone staircase.

* * *

Sylvie doesn’t have time to collect her thoughts, much less her things, after her hasty departure from the great hall. With Charms class with the Hufflepuffs starting in ten minutes, getting to the Ravenclaw tower and up to the dormitory and back down to Flitwick’s room seems like a tall order. However her homework is in her bag upstairs and Flitwick is likely to be lenient if she is late, though not so likely if her essay is.

The sprint up to the tower gives her racing mind time to pause and digest her mother’s letter, or rather Howler. Her mother has never sent her one before, in fact, her mother has hardly ever yelled at her before. She supposes that the letter hasn’t yelled, it had sort of berated, albeit furiously. She thanks her lucky stars that her and her mother communicate in French.

_Je ne pourrais jamais cru que tu serais tant téméraire! Si je pouvais je te ramènerais en France, mais évidement tu as veillé à ce que tu disputeras. Tu m’avais mis dans l’embarras, Sylvie. Je m’attends à te voir pendant le prochain séjour au Pré-au-Lard, il faut que je te parle plus._

_I could never have believed you would be so reckless! If I could I would take you back to France but evidently you have seen to it that you will compete. You have embarrassed me, Sylvie. I expect to see you during the next Hogsmead weekend, we need to talk more about this_

Her mother’s words had been cold, _you have embarrassed me_ , but what preoccupies her more is that her mother is demanding to see her when she next visits Hogsmead. What that means is that her mother is coming here, to see her, for the first time.

Sylvie makes it to charms only a few minutes late, out of breathe as she slides into her seat next to Lorenzo, who throws her a look that says, _we need to talk._

Flitwick doesn’t say anything about her late entry, only continues in his introduction to non verbal charms.

‘The Aguamenti charm is a relatively simple one, so beginning with it will be a good introduction to non verbal spells. Non verbal spells require a more complex understanding of magical theory, as well as intense concentration.’ Flitwick recites, pacing the elevated platform at the front of his classroom that allows the student to see him clearly.

‘Your essays were on chapter four of the standard book of spells grade six, kindly read the introduction to the next chapter now before we move on to practising the charm.’Sylvie takes out the scroll on which her essay is written and leaves it on her desk for Flitwick to collect.

She flicks to chapter five in the standard book of spells and begins to read, trying hard to concentrate.

_Non verbal spells are best described as those which produce the same outcome as the ordinary spell but do not require the caster to speak the incantation aloud. In the case of the Aguamenti charm..._

It’s no use. Sylvie can hardly finish the first paragraph before Hagrid’s words from the morning come echoing back to her.

“ _Without dragons an’ all.”_

Looking around at Lorenzo, she sees that he is not reading his textbook either, he is looking pointedly at her, and then furtively at Flitwick, as though trying to convey something to her without being overheard. Sylvie leans closer to him to make out what he wants to tell her, but at that moment two things happen at once to interrupt them.

‘All right students - you should have now read the introduction to the non verbal Aguamenti charm, if you please take out your wands and move into groups of twos or threes to practise the incantation with some of the -’ Professor Flitwick begins, but the door to his classroom is pushed open by a petite dark third year girl with a shrill, serious voice.

‘Sorry to interrupt sir, but I’ve been told to come and get Sylvie Lomont for the Weighing of the Wands with the other champions.’ She says, casting a glance at Sylvie.

Hopes of conversing with Lorenzo dashed, Sylvie stands up resignedly and crams her quills and textbook into her bag, handing her scroll to Flitwick with a small smile.

‘Very well, Sylvie, finish reading the chapter for next lesson.’ He squeaks, smiling almost imperceptibly. Before she follows the younger girl from the classroom she looks back at Lo, who is still watching her, sending him the same message he had non verbally communicated at the start of the lesson. _We need to talk._


	6. Oh the stories I could tell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Half-formed plans, flashing blue badges and a decidedly dishonest reporter

The third year leads her silently up towards a relatively small classroom that has a view of the empty quidditch pitch.Her eyes, however, are more immediately drawn to the rather magnificent silhouette of Fleur Delacour perched on the edge of a classroom table, looking slightly disdainfully at Ludo Bagman, who is bouncing excitedly on his heels, his balding head gleaming in the weak November sunlight.

‘Ah perfect! Welcome Sylvie, just one more that we’re waiting on!’ Bagman exclaims happily. Looking around, Sylvie sees Krum and Karkaroff standing together just next to the doorway, and Madame Maxime, who is casting a sideways glance at an extremely ancient old man with silver hair to rival Dumbledore’s. Sylvie recognises Ollivander, the cotton wool-haired wand maker from Diagon Alley.

Just as Sylvie concludes that they are about to have their wands examined as a precursor to the tournament, Harry enters the room behind her, blocking the door before a loud, excitable young Gryffindor can slip in behind him.

‘Okay thanks Collin.’ He dismisses the boy uncomfortably, looking embarrassed. With the four of them now here, Bagman beams with boyish satisfaction and swings his large red hands up to meet one another.

‘So, it’s great to see you all here! Misses Lomont and Delacour, and of course Mr Potter and Mr Krum!’ He inclines his head graciously at them.  
‘Now we’ll start with some photos for the Daily Prophet. I’m afraid that can’t be helped!’ He laughs, and Sylvie looks across at the woman next to him, clad in magenta robes and sporting long, almost vicious looking fingernails in the same obnoxious pink.

‘And interviews, Ludo.’ She chimes in quickly, looking at them and licking her lips subtly, as though she were a cat surveying its next meal.

‘We’ll get them over with before the photos and then I’ll be out of your hair,’ she smiles widely, ‘how about we start with the youngest?’Harry looks none too pleased at being singled out, but reluctantly stands up from the table he had been leaning on, hovering hesitantly before, flabbergasted, he is ushered into a broom cupboard for ‘a more intimate conversation.’

Fleur and Sylvie exchange looks.Whilst Harry is with Skeeter, the photographer gets some photos of each of the three of them alone, Fleur looking regal and poised, Krum surly and mysterious. Sylvie pushes her shoulders back and gives the camera the look she usually reserves for Professor Snape when he comes to inspect her cauldron - at once challenging and unyielding, though only to hide her nerves.

Skeeter emerges from the broom cabinet after Harry, who has evidently escaped in a huff, confusion and frustration edged deep on his brow. Skeeter’s spectacled eyes scan the room and latch onto Sylvie, approaching her and resting what must be intended as a motherly hand on her arm - her grip is vice like.

‘Let’s have a chat, Sylvie, hey?’ She croons, and gives Sylvie little choice in guiding her into the dark closet.

The reporter’s robes seem to glow like neon in the dimly lit cupboard, sitting unperturbedly on a box of spare broom handles, she takes an awful, vivid green quill from her handbag.

‘It’s a quick quotes quill, dearie, just follows along with what we say so we can have a proper talk, no bothersome scribbling for me to focus on.’ She reassures her in a honeyed voice, giving a small laugh. Sylvie nods, keeping her eyes trained on the hovering quill, which seem to almost quiver with excitement.

‘So, Sylvia, what made you decide to enter the tournament?’ Skeeter asks, her jaw pushed forward in apparent curiousity, eyes gleaming under the jewelled glasses.The reporter damn well knows her name, she’d been there when Bagman greeted her. Is she _trying_ to make her feel talked down to?

‘My name’s Sylvie,’ she corrects her, frowning slightly, but pushing on as the woman only blinks at her, ‘I suppose I wanted a challenge. Ravenclaws get good O.W.L’s but we aren’t known for much more than that.’ Sylvie shrugs.

Skeeter hums in apparent interest as the quill dances across the parchment.

_...aside from her connection to the well publicised murder of her father three years ago. Overshadowed by this gruesome reputation..._

Sylvie looks up from the parchment, shocked. Blood boiling and feeling simultaneously as though she has been doused with cold water at the mention of her father, Sylvie opens her mouth in outrage.

‘This has nothing to do with my father, I-’ Sylvie exclaims, anger causing her to trip over her words, though Skeeter only smiles widely and pats her hand playfully.

‘Ignore the quill! Just a first draft, adding a bit of context, bit of colour.’ Skeeter assures her, adjusting her glasses.

‘So, Sylvie, your mother is quite the famous witch, how does she feel about you competing? Does she think you’re up to the task?’ Probes Skeeter.

‘I’m of age, it was my decision to enter,’ Sylvie shrugs, brow furrowed, still watching the quill from the corner of her eye, ‘I’m sure she’s a bit worried, like you’d expect. We haven’t spoken much about it.’ Sylvie hesitates.

_The rift between mother and daughter, surely not only to be accounted for by distance, seems to have grown since..._

‘What the- how could you make something like that up?’ Exclaims Sylvie, outraged, disconcerted at seeing her mother’s character being dissected, and none the less in seeing how Skeeter seems intent on portraying Sylvie herself.

‘Touched a nerve? Tell me then, do you want to compete in the tournament? Given Harry is your fellow Hogwarts champion, do you see him as an ally or an opponent?’ Skeeter probes, a hungry gleam in her eye, not in the least perturbed by Sylvies anger.

Deciding that she cannot stand to subject herself to this any longer, Sylvie goes to stand up just as the closet door is pulled open.

‘Dumbledore!’ Rita cries with a false warmth that does not quite match her wary expression. The headmaster towers over them, seeming to gauge the situation immediately, Sylvie so obviously furious, the quick quotes quill poised over parchment.

Rita and Dumbledore say a few words to eachother, something related to an article she had written on him, no doubt slanderous, but Sylvie has already pushed past Dumbledore in a daze, fists tightly clenched and blood roaring in her ears.

The table in the classroom against the far wall has been draped with velvet. The other champions, judges and Olivander are sitting there, watching her approach. Shoulders tens and rigid, Sylvie lowers herself into a chair next to Harry, remaining silent, the words of the quick quotes quill still ringing in her ears.

‘So, Miss Delacourt, your wand if you please.’ Olivander requests, an old and veined hand reaching out tremulously for her to pass him her wand. He turns it over thoughtfully, humming slightly. Pronouncing it in fine working order and making a shower of sparks appear, he returns it to her.

He tests Krum’s wand in the same way, remarking on the differing methods of foreign wand makers, though not lingering too long on the subject.

‘Mr Potter if you please.’ Announces Olivander, taking Harry’s wand and turning it over in his ancient hands.  
  
‘Ahh yes. I remember.’ Olivander muses cryptically, staring intensely at the wand before looking up, his pale blue eyes meeting Harry’s green ones. Sylvie watches, slightly intrigued, though Olivander says nothing more of it other than to pronounce the wand in perfect condition, letting a fountain of wine flow from the tip.

‘Now, Miss Lomont, another one of mine!’ Olivander recalls happily, taking her wand. She hands it to him, immediately missing the sense of security the supple wood under her fingers had given.

‘Ten and a half inches, willow, a bit temperamental if I do recall and...’ he pauses, making a blast of wind shoot from the tip, ‘unicorn hair?’Sylvie nods, hoping to leave his questioning there.

_Temperamental_ , yes she remembered he had called it that when he had sold it to her.

‘Well it seems to be as good as when you bought it, Miss Lomont.’ He decides, handing it back to her and smiling around at them. Ludo claps his hands together, pleased. Skeeter looks slightly disappointed, but perks up quickly.

‘Photos, photos! We haven’t taken any groups shots! Stand together now.’ She fusses, ushering them into standing positions in rows, making a great deal of rearranging them and arranging them, putting Harry front and center for nearly every photo, sometimes pulling Sylvie next to him or else having her over his shoulder.

Skeeter’s obsessive focus on acquiring dozens upon dozens of photos prolongs the whole ordeal, but at last it is over. Loathe to admit it she may be, it had at least been informative in the demeanours of the other champions. 

Krum had seemed accustomed to the attention associated with photographs and reporters, though not particularly thrilled by it. Sylvie had observed that Harry was deeply preoccupied with something or other, perhaps what had occurred during his interview with Rita, if it had been anything like her own, he has reason to be.Only Fleur had seemed to relish the spotlight.

Most lessons having undoubtedly finished by now, Sylvie makes her way towards the Ravenclaw common room where she hopes to find Lorenzo, intending to make use of their free period before dinner to talk about the upcoming task.

Despite her single minded intent on reaching the tower, as well as being lost in thought as she always is, it cannot escape Sylvie’s notice that around half of the student she passes in the corridors are flashing moving, colourful badges.

As a group of Slytherins pass her she can distinctly make out Harry Potter’s face, swollen to ridiculous, grotesque proportions and emblazoned with the catchy slogan, ‘ _Potter Stinks_ ’.

The badges seem to have more to say, however, as a second later she sees one flash blue letters that read, _Sylvie Lomont, the real Hogwarts champion_.

Before the Slytherins can say anything about her staring, Sylvie is off, passing the statue of Barnabus the Barmy without a glance behind her, face burning. Not only have the Slytherins stepped up their never ending campaign of vitriol against Harry Potter, they are pitting her against him!

Of course, the Triwizard tournament is exactly that, a _tournament_ , but she herself hasn’t felt any special competitiveness towards Harry, no more than Krum or Fleur at least.

‘Lorenzo! I’m glad I found you. Have you seen those awful badges?’ Sylvie lets out a sigh of relief as she glimpses her friend nestled amongst stacks of books and ink bottles, looking up at her in equal joy.  
Sylvie stops in her tracks when she sees a blue badge glimmering on Lorenzo’s robes, just visible above the edge of the table.

‘Ugh,’ he looks down at in disgust, ‘Sylvie one of the third years pushed it on me, I know it’s a piece of junk.’ He consoles her, pulling it off and discarding it amongst his crumpled papers and old quills. ‘I got lost in this essay for McGonagal.’

‘Yeah, well...’ Sylvie shakes her head as if to rid all thought of the badges from her mind, ‘what did you want to say to me during charms?’ She reminds him, dropping into a fine oak chair that contrasts sharply with the well worn table, blotted with ink stains and scratches from student upon student’s many quills.

‘What do you think? The first task of course! And a hundred other things besides. Potter, Bagman, Mad Eye and that _howler_.’ Lo lists with a darkly significant look, wide eyed and alight with curiousity.

Normally Sylvie would like nothing more than to sit before the large windows overlooking the grounds, sharing a bar of honeyduke’s chocolate and discussing all of their wildest theories on everything from Oliver Wood’s quidditch strategies to Filch’s secret love affair with Madam Pince. This evening, however, she finds herself wanting little more than comfort and platitudes, someone to reassure her anxieties about the first task, her mother and the scrutiny of the rest of the school.

‘Maman is coming here, as soon as she’s able.’ Sylvie sighs, her head resting in a cupped palm, voice slightly muffled through her compressed cheek.

‘Your mum! Sylvie, you mean she’s coming here? To Britain? To _Hogwarts_?’ Lo asks, aghast and slightly awestruck.

‘To Hogsmead of course, she wants to see me as soon as we can get away there for a weekend.’ Sylvie sighs, looking into her lap.   
‘Probably so she can berate me in person, though I’d have guessed from her Howler that she wouldn’t ever want to see me again.’ Sylvie continues sarcastically, a modicum of bitterness in her voice that Lorenzo seems to pick up on.

‘She doesn’t _hate_ you Sylvie,’ Lo refutes, shaking his head ruefully and giving her a friendly sort of clasp on the shoulder.

‘That’s neither here nor there anyway. I went to Hagrid this morning.’ Sylvie pivots, suddenly uncomfortable, recounting to her friend the details of her visit to Hagrid, how he had let slip the crucial premise of the first task but evaded telling her anything further.

By the time she has finished, Lorenzo’s eyes are the size of galleons.

‘ _Dragons_? And he said nothing else?’ He repeats, caught between incredulity and excitement. In that moment Sylvie half thinks he would have made a better champion.

‘He didn’t say anything else, only that he supposed he would have to tell Harry now that he’s let it slip to me.’ Sylvie replies, brow furrowing slightly as she casts her mind back.

‘Well never mind whether or not Harry knows, that won’t make any odds in how you do in the task.’ Lorenzo brushes her assertion aside, now ignoring his essay completely.

‘Lo, how on earth do I go about defeating a dragon?’ Sylvie asks with astonishment, her friend’s no nonsense tone seeming to further ignite her own anxieties, as though he expects that she would be intuitively capable of such a feat.

‘Don’t look at it like that, Sylvie. Break it down a bit further. What makes a dragon dangerous and what can you do about it?’ He prompts. She stares at him open mouthed.

‘Well for starters they breathe fire, Lo.’ She reminds him, sitting up straighter, frowning slightly. He nods, eyebrows raised, a tilt to his chin that seems to encourage her to think further.

‘So... a flame freezing charm? Aguamenti could be useful too, I suppose.’ Sylvie reasons slowly, looking into her friends dark eyes.

‘Come to think of it, I remember Hagrid mentioning once that a dragon’s eyes are their weakest point.’ She continues, lost in thought, all frustration vanished, her brain working feverishly.

‘If they have poor eyesight I could confuse it... do you remember what McGonagal said about switching spells? I need to go to library.’ Sylvie mutters to herself, Lorenzo looking on with amused satisfaction.

‘There’s only twenty minutes left until dinner, the library will be full soon.’ Lorenzo warns, intuitively reasoning that Sylvie would prefer to avoid finding herself bombarded by other students, picking up his quill once more as he watches Sylvie stand up fumble with her bag.

‘I won’t be there long, I’ll just check out some books and meet you in the great hall.’ She tells him, pulling her hair up off her face into a ponytail before hurrying from the common room, dragons and jinxes the only subjects on her mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, as always!   
> I hope whoever reads this knows that I’m grateful, and I love them :) look at me being cheesy with my 17 hits! Thanks anyway guys, seriously.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! This is my first published work so I would appreciate any feedback you have :) stay cool dudes!


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